


A Request, Repeated

by Egleriel



Series: Nameday Gifts [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adult Sansa, F/M, Farce, Love Confessions, Sandor is still getting in his own way, Sansa is still not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 08:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13430430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel
Summary: In which Sansa actually has the guts to tell Sandor how she feels. Follow-up to 'The Nameday Request'.





	A Request, Repeated

**Author's Note:**

> Being pleasantly flabbergasted by the response to 'The Nameday Request' - and guys, I know, this is such a silly premise but it was kind of fun to write - please find enclosed, by popular demand, the second half of the conversation. For anyone who's interested.

Sansa’s head was spinning, but years of practice kept her turmoil safe behind a mask of serenity.  _He can still read me,_ she remembered; _he always sees the feelings in my eyes._

 

Except where they concerned him, it seemed. Sansa replayed their encounter in her mind as best she could, trying to understand the conversation Sandor had been having. He’d picked out the signs that she wanted no man save Sandor, but took them to mean she wanted _no man at all_. And with that in mind, the demeaning task she begged of him as her trusted confidante… well, she wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up thinking she wanted a whore, but if he truly believed her to prefer women then perhaps he couldn’t imagine any other way for her to approach a female lover.

 

One part of her mind strayed to past interactions that she now saw to have been misconstrued. All the times they’d bantered about how a lady love should be treated, and so on. His hesitation had not surprised her, but then he’d nodded to himself and relaxed. He’d been so much more forthcoming than she expected: gentle and funny in his teasing, which made her bold enough to try to flirt. He’d only chuckled to himself. She guessed now that he had been trying to support her; treating her as a fellow admirer of the fairer sex, not as a would-be partner.

 

At that time, though, Sansa had not understood whether it augured well. Was this a sign he was actually receptive to her, or instead that he found the idea of them together so ridiculous that he felt it safe to play along?  And the joke had run on over weeks and weeks, popping up at different times when they were alone together, until Sansa finally made the decision that she would approach him directly on her name-day. After that, she felt far too awkward to jape with him.

 

The other part of her mind was stuck on how Sandor had reacted to the truth. The way he’d looked her up and down had looked _nothing_ like rejection. Seven gods, he’d drawn steel on men for looking at her with half the heat.

 

After suffering his refusal just moments earlier, her hope was a fragile thing. When she saw the softness in his face, was it revelation or delusion?

 

 

The Hound still knelt in front of her chair. Even on his knees, he was so large that he had to hunch over to keep eye contact. Sansa’s cheek burned where his finger had grazed it, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

 

If he wanted her to start again, that suited Sansa well. What was the worst that could happen? He could just say ‘no’ a second time, and she’d survived that once already this night. She only stood to gain from this, and the thought lent her strength. Sansa sat a little straighter in her seat and set down her wine-cup on the table beside her.

 

Sandor watched her movements with the wide-eyed caution of a cornered animal. When she turned back to him, she wore a soft, sincere smile. The unburnt side of Sandor’s face was painted the colour of sunset by the light of the dying fire, and Sansa stretched her fingers towards the scarred cheek, mirroring his touch from before.

 

 _‘Brave’ doesn’t have to mean brazen,_ she reminded herself. Her belly twisted almost painfully, the thrill of anticipation making her heart flutter.

 

“Sandor?” she said quietly. “For my nameday, I’d like to know what it is to lie with a man.”

 

She saw him swallow.

 

“Specifically, what it would be like to lie with _you_.”

 

Sandor didn’t answer. He searched her face initially – looking, as ever, for the lie. He wouldn’t find one.

 

“You didn’t see this coming?” she asked at last, not unkindly. She hoped an easier question would coax him out of silence.

 

“No,” he breathed.

 

“Not even when I told you I hadn’t looked at a _knight_ or a _lord_ since I was a girl?”

 

Her fingers on his cheek trembled, and Sansa turned the touch into a caress to hide her shaking. She would give Sandor no cause to doubt her certainty.

 

“No.”

 

“Nor all those times you caught me staring as you trained?”

 

Sandor’s gaze flitted to her eyes just long enough for Sansa to see a spark in them.

 

“I never caught you staring.”

 

“Maybe not,” Sansa admitted. “But you caught me looking away.”

 

“Would it have been so _improper_ to meet my eye?” he snarled, but there was no fire to it.

 

“With what I was thinking?” she blushed. “Yes, it certainly would have been.”

 

“Then why ask about brothels? You must have known how surprised the maids would be.”

 

“It was rash of me,” agreed Sansa. The heat in her cheeks was blazing now. “I just wanted to know what you _liked_.”

 

His mouth became a grim line as his hand went to her waist. “So you asked what _I_ did at brothels, not just what happens there.”

 

“I used you as an example, in the hopes they would share some bit of gossip. It’s not like I don’t know how servants talk about retainers.”

 

She’d wondered if it would excite her or repel her if he turned out to ask for red-haired wenches. Maybe she would learn he liked to be watched, or beaten, or only take his whores from behind. Knowledge was power, as assuredly in the bedchamber as anywhere else.

 

“Did you get your answer?”

 

“No.”

 

His face relaxed a little. “Are you sure you wanted to know it?”

 

“No,” said Sansa. How had this gone from a seduction to a confrontation?

 

“There’s precious little to tell. I ask for any whore without blue eyes, long legs or red hair. I turn them down if they have teats that remind me too much of yours. Or if they’re too damned tall. I couldn’t bear to touch a woman that reminded me of you.”

 

The words rattled in Sansa’s head. They were spoken dully, with no trace of either attraction or revulsion.

 

“Not there. Not like that. You’d deserve so much better than a quick rut in a whorehouse, even if it’s only in my mind’s eye.”

 

It was the most improper compliment Sansa had ever received, but the desire she glimpsed now set her mind racing. They were talking about this. He was telling her, openly, about imagining her in his bed. This was really happening.

 

“What _do_ I deserve, if not… that?” she chirped courteously.

 

“I told you before,” he grinned. “Your first time should be… with someone you care for, who’s worthy of you.”

 

His hand fell away when he faltered, and with it went that hungry smile. Sansa grabbed his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

 

“No,” she protested suddenly. “That’s not what you said at first. You said my first time should be with someone who truly loves me.”

 

It was Sansa’s turn to search _his_ eyes. It was dawning on her that the big man was not the only person who might have wholly misread the signs. “Do you _love_ me, Sandor? Not as a charge or a little sister, but… ‘truly’?”

 

Sandor swallowed, looking hurt and averting his eyes.

 

“Because I love _you_ ,” she blurted gracelessly. “I think I have for a long time.”

 

He was so close that Sansa ached to fall against him. One hand was still cupping his scarred cheek, the other clasping his. The tension was more than she could handle, chest brimming with emotion, heart hammering, belly aflutter.

 

_Kiss me or leave me, damn you._

 

He closed his eyes. “Little bird,” he murmured. He leaned his cheek into her palm, and Sansa had her answer.

 

As her heart leapt, Sandor stood up, pulling Sansa with him. The fingers that had caressed his face now landed on his chest.

 

“You deserve far better than me, you know that?” he demanded. A smirk set his scars twitching. Sansa beamed at him. “You do. But you’re a grown woman and you know your own damn mind.”

 

His arm wrapped itself around her waist.  Her heart wasn’t pounding anymore: it was _dancing_. She felt lighter than air.

 

“So what will you do?” asked Sansa breathlessly.

 

A full, true smile transformed the Hound’s face.

 

“The lady’s nameday is nearly over,” he laughed, lowering his mouth to hers, “So it’s about time I gave her a token of my regard.”

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of like this little AU. Open to prompts!


End file.
